No Unwounded Soldiers
by RedCyanide
Summary: AU. He dragged himself and his platoon across the frozen wasteland, their boots sending snow flying everywhere. The harsh winter eats away at the fearsome war machine, reducing it to a pile of shivering human flesh. [Medic/Heavy]


**This story is a little based on a true story in which an American pilot meets the Romanian pilot who had shot him down in 1944 sixty years after the war; they just smiled and hugged each other like they've been friends for a lifetime. **

* * *

He dragged himself and his platoon across the frozen wasteland, their boots sending snow flying everywhere. The harsh winter eats away at the fearsome war machine, reducing it to a pile of shivering human flesh. It was late January and, in the open field, the wind was howling into his ears, making it impossible for him to hear any of the yelled orders or the screams for help. Terribly under-dressed, he was trembling violently; he swiftly blew hot air into his hands, which had long turned crimson red.

Everyone thought it would end quickly; another Blitzkrieg campaign; but Stalingrad proved to be a hard shell to crack, and the infamous Siberian blizzard caught up to them, making a deadly combination with the waves of Russian troops and T-34s that came and came and came and never seemed to end. "Heh, looks like we're gonna have to kill everyone inside this damned country." someone had once joked. He peeked over the rim of his glasses, counting more than a dozen fallen bodies, along with the adjacent red stain on the pure white blanket; sign of machine gun fire.

At least six Maxim-Tokarev machine guns barked at them from behind a barricade. He could tell what kind of gun it was by the sound it made, if it was friend or enemy. His heart sank and his conscience told him he's spent too much time on the front line, among bullets and dead bodies. No man's land was reduced to a tiny strip of frozen soil just a few steps ahead of where he was hunched over, a small hill protecting him from stray bullets.

He pulled the Luger out of its holster, and waited. Blood hammered into his temples and over the ra-ta-ta-ta of the firearms he heard cries for help.

"Medic! Medic!"

Half-heartedly, he left the safety of his cover and crawled through the snow. The young soldier was pale as death and shaking uncontrollably; tears streamed down his face, the unforgiving coldness turning them into frost. His legs were mangled, turned into and bloody mess. The doctor shook his head at him, "How can I possibly help you?" His clear blue eyes begged him for salvation. He was just a kid, lured in with sugar-coated promises of a better future, only to wake up later into a horrible nightmare he could never escape.

The doctor sighed; his frozen hand could barely feel the Luger that he still held. Almost as if someone else was gripping at the deadly steel. He pointed and shot, the clear eyes became glassy. He sighed again, deeper his time. It was the least he could've done.

It had all started to go bad ever since the beginning. Sometime during the first weeks, the Italian artillery had suddenly started firing at them, then called it a small misunderstanding. While they were busy cursing them to hell and back, the 8th Hungarian army had picked a fight with its Romanian counterpart, which prompted to a position change so the two armies won't bump into each other again and carry out with their historical feud. Fragile alliances built on the ridiculous aspirations of a madman.

It's all been for nothing. A pointless war. A projectile crashed into ground a few meters to his right, pieces of frozen earth hitting him like shrapnel. He brought his hand up his cover his face, but suddenly a large hand hauled him off the ground, only to slam him back into it. He found himself on his back, the pistol knocked out his hand. His vision was blocked by a large figure, dressed in the standard trench coat. Time slowed down around him; the heavy Russian's emotionless eyes were staring at him from under the ushanka that was covering his forehead.

Better equipped for the harsh winter, the soviet forces tore through them. One could say people learn from mistakes, but right now the doctor sees himself transported back in time somewhere in the middle of Napoleon's invasion of the same cursed land, killing his own horse for food. Who would have thought, when he was still back at home in his beloved Stuttgart and sat hours after hours in his library reading about the battles of this brilliant military commander, that he himself will end up being ripped away from his family, handed a gun and sent to mindlessly shoot people branded as enemies by God knows what standards.

He tried to move, and that's when he became aware of the dull pain in his back. Rendered immobile, he waited, facing his enemy as if daring him to shoot. The other man's eyes scanned his face, as if looking for something. The last thing the doctor ever saw of Stalingrad was the butt of the assault rifle coming for his head.

* * *

By '45, there was nothing but ruins. Had anybody asked him how he survived, he would have shrugged and said 'dumb luck'. All he knew was that it's been a long journey and at the end of it all he had left was his Luger, a pair of dog tags and the image of Europe burning and falling apart in front of him. Germany, his Germany, was split in two and he couldn't return to Stuttgart. This new strange, cold Berlin didn't feel like home, and he still tossed and turned into his bed, jumping awake with screams of pain and terror resounding in his ear.

The war might have been over now, or at least the battles, but the wounds were still open, deep and bleeding.


End file.
